372 Narrative of some Events [ArriL, 
ing our doom, and pitying our fate, they were afraid to trust themselves 
to speak to us. We could not at least accuse them of hypocrisy. 
It was late when we returned to the town, and, even in the midst of 
his anxiety, I could see joy lighten in the looks of my father at our 
safety, for even during our short absence, the reports of the rapid 
advance of the rebels had been so frequent, that he feared we might 
have been intercepted on our return. The milk was gratefully received 
by our own children, as well as all the other poor little creatures shel- 
tered in that crowded house. We prayed, and endeavoured to rest on 
the bare boards, though worn out in mind and body; but I slept but little 
that night, with the moans of a wounded man in the very room with us, 
and the heat and closeness of the air, so different from our own pleasant 
airy little bed-rooms. 
At the very dawn I arose, and my father seeing me preparing to 
venture once more to see our cows, and that I was seeking in vain for 
our servant (whom it was many weeks before I saw again) said he 
would go with me, for he hoped there would not be any immediate want 
of him in the town. We arrived at the little farm, and found, as yet, 
all was safe. The cows waiting for us, and the poor poultry and pigs 
‘looking for food that we had not to give them. After attending to the 
cows, I thought of some brown griddle cakes we had left behind us on 
a shelf, and went to break some to the fowls, when my father followed 
me into our desolate kitchen, and, taking a piece of the bread, asked me 
for a mug of the warm milk. I gave it to him, and turning to the door, 
and casting my eyes up to Coolnahorna Hill, which was not a quarter of 
a mile distant from us, I saw the top ridge of it filled with men, armed 
with pikes, the heads of them glistening brightly in the morning sun. 
Much troubled, I called to my father, and hardly knowing what I did, 
1 took up the large vessel of milk I had intended to carry into the town 
for the children; but my father, looking at ‘me as if he never thought to 
see me again, said, “ Lay that down, Jane, it is most probable we shall 
none of us ever want it.” I laid it down, and we returned back to 
Enniscorthy, where we arrived breathless about ten in the forenoon. 
As we advanced towards it, we heard the drum beating to arms, and on 
entering, we heard that the enemy were closing in on all sides of the 
town in vast force. We saw our friends hurrying through the streets 
to the different posts assigned to them; the North Cork were placed on 
the bridge over the Slaney, which ran on the east side of the town ; our 
own horse yeomanry filled the street leading from that bridge; our 
infantry, amongst whom were the supplementaries, were placed at the 
Duffrey Gate Hill; at the opposite extremity of the town to the west, 
a guard of yeoman was placed over the Market-house, where there was 
a great store of arms and ammunition, and where a few prisoners were — 
‘confined ; some more mounted guard over the castle, an ancient build- 
ing, in which some of the most dangerous rebels were lodged; and my 
father, after leaving me with my mother, put on his belts, took up his 
musket, and joined my brother (whom we had never seen all this time 
though he was on duty in the town), at the Duffrey Gate, the post they 
were, ordered to occupy. 
In the course of this morning, Willis, whose house we were sheltered 
in, put his wife and his two infants on a horse, and mounting another, 
fled with them to Wexford ; he never told any one he was leaving them, 
nor could ‘we blame him, for such a ‘calamity as we were all involved in 
